


Of Wolf and Man

by Riachinko



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Edgeplay, Knifeplay, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Pet Play, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-05 01:58:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11567943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riachinko/pseuds/Riachinko
Summary: LeFou finds himself in the middle of Gaston's hunter/prey fantasy, whoops.





	Of Wolf and Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [queenallyababwa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenallyababwa/gifts).



> Trying out LeFou's POV this time, yoroshiku onegaishimasu~

He’s made the subtle nod, given me that look - the only thing I know for sure how to read. 

We’ve only just finished dinner - well, Gaston has, at least. I’ve still got a quarter chicken breast and half my beer to finish.

I’m not sure how prone I am to visibly blushing, but whenever he looks at me like he has - with those deep, animalistic eyes - I have to force my head down, just in case. I calmly pick at my chicken, but chug back the remainder of the beer once Gaston rises and begins to leave without me.

Several of our friends stop him at the stairs to coax him to stay. “Stay and drink,” I can hear them cheer.

“I’ve been practicing,” says Tom with a sly grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, “and you owe me another arm wrestling match!”

But Gaston shakes them off, and though I can’t quite hear him, I imagine he’s telling them off as civilly as possible. It is, maybe, a bit unusual that we’re leaving immediately after a meal - even _I’m_ not entirely sure what’s gotten Gaston in the mood enough to up and go.

 _But why would I ever question that_.

I can’t help but smirk, giddy with the imagery at the back of my mind, as I leave my chair wobbling and trot past the gang, offering a weak excuse of “It’s been a long day, fellas, sorry!”

They mutter and groan as I take my leave, and I _do_ feel bad about taking off without a proper reason for a proper farewell, but my focus is on more important things right now.

Like Gaston.  
  
Gaston’s-- 

“LeFou! _Hurry up_ , will you?”

My head snaps to the left; I hadn’t noticed Gaston leaning against the side of the tavern waiting for me, but there he is, handsome as ever, illuminated in orange as the sun sets in front of us. I know I’m staring dumbly at him - I always know I must be, when he reaches out and grabs my wrist, nearly pulling my arm from its socket as he tugs me in whichever direction he’s going.

Right now, he’s tugging me in the direction of his cabin - mercifully; praise God - and somewhat fast, too. I wiggle to pull my wrist free and succeed, though I suspect he’s loosened his grip as I’ve picked up my pace to catch up to him.

“So to what do I owe the pleasure tonight?” I jeer at him.

I don’t mean anything by my tone, though I would like to know why we’re leaving without so much as a second round of alcohol in us. I know he knows I’ll always follow him, but ribbing comments help me to control the situation I find myself in as best I can.

I mean, do I like being used? Well…

“I just...want to fuck you,” his voice rumbles, low.

...No, I don’t mind at all.

Only two more blocks, down two more twisting, seldom-used streets. Thank you, God, thank you, I pray silently in my head. I’m already twitching in my underdrawers and getting that sickish feeling of excitement in my gut. It’s a blessing to be able to have this kind of relationship with another man - let alone _Gaston_ , of all people - and I don’t know what I did to deserve it.

He just wants to fuck me.

Well good...I want to be fucked.

I cling to his arm as we walk, once we’re close to his home and the sun has set and I’m confident that there’s nobody in the street who will see us. I hear him exhale sharply through his nose, but for the most part, Gaston doesn’t look at me or make another sound; surprising, when I’d think he’d complain about my closeness.

And then we’re on the illy-tended wooden steps leading to his front door, and Gaston opens it wide and ushers me inside. As soon as the door is closed he’s on me.

His mouth crashes onto mine, and his teeth hurt my own and make a funny clacking noise that I want to laugh about, but I can’t. I want to tell him to calm down, but I'd never. I don’t want to ruin this and have his mouth leave me. I don’t want that tongue that’s pressing against mine to stop its intrusion.

“ _Mmph_ \--” my groans into my mouth.

He _groans_ into my _mouth_!!

It’s hugely erotic, like nothing we’ve ever done. I can count the number of times we’ve kissed on one hand, and the number of times he’s initiated a kiss is...well, one now, but it had been zero for the longest time, and I am loving the change in him. He’s forceful and strong and so, so marvellous in every way. Beautiful. His kisses are much better when he’s hungry for them, and I think I just might be able to die happy now.

He pushes up against me and we’re backing up to his rickety old sofa that smells of whiskey and fire.

We stop once he's backed me up far enough to where my heels hit the foot of the chair, and I maybe would tumble backwards were he not holding me tightly to him, supporting me with one hand to the small of my back and the other - _God_ , the other - under my chin, rubbing his thumb along my jawline as he runs the tip of his tongue along every single one of my teeth and tickles the underside of my tongue, too.

I know he holds my chin like this when he wants something that's hard to get. I wonder what it could be this time, that has him worked up like this.

Feral; predatory like a wolf.

“Gaston,” I manage to gasp out while I catch my breath, but he doesn't let me continue; claims my mouth once again while his hands slip lower, caressing my back, my flanks, my buttocks.

My breath stutters. He's amazing - magnificent - and my mind is clouded with thoughts of _please touch me more_.

Then, as though he can read my mind, Gaston grabs me - hard - one hand under each cheek and lifts me so that I'm straddling his waist, and it's embarrassing to think that he must feel my erection straining against his chest. Does he know what he's doing to me!? Every minute of every day, he's got me dying to please him...

So of course he's doing this on purpose: he knows how fast he gets my heart racing when he puts on a show of raw, masculine strength. That he can lift me at all is a small miracle, but this: grabbing at my ass, lifting me so that he doesn't have to lean down to plunge his tongue into my throat, well, that's an impressive feat if I've ever seen one.

A tale worthy enough to be told to a crowd at the bar, I sneer, imagining the looks of shock and horror such a story would elicit.

“Gaston, f-fff--”

He turns us around, then, and sits, hands still supporting me as he brings me down onto him with my cock rubbing against my clothing and poking into his gut - and what I can feel of his rests against the cleft of my ass.

“Fuck me,” I gasp.

No use in hiding it: we both know that that's what's going to happen.

Gaston groans again; breathes heavily against my chin. “Not yet, _mon cerf_ ” he huffs.

Well, I'm in for more foreplay, certainly. It's rather unlike Gaston to be so considerate.

He moves down on top of me, repositioning our bodies so that I'm flat on my back, trapped beneath his weight; pressed against the musty cushions. He buries his nose against my neck and breathes in the scent of my hair. I long to do the same, but I don't dare touch his expertly-tamed coif.

And I can't help but laugh; it's full of as much joy as it is cynicism when I say, “Just what is it you want, Gaston?”

He busies himself with kissing my collarbone, his hands tugging at the hem of my tunic to pull it free from my breeches. I absent-mindedly rock my hips against his, and he sighs into my skin, thrusting shallowly into my thigh.

He pulls away from me when I snicker.

“Do you remember, LeFou, during the war - you were so frightened by unexpected noises. You’d stop dead in your tracks during training, like a deer looking down the barrel of a rifle.” Gaston looks down at me with such a lovely, cocky grin. “I called you ‘mon cerf’.”

His hands don’t fail to roam my body; the buttons of my waistcoat are undone in a brief moment's time.

“I remember,” I reply, smiling sheepishly at the memory.

At the time I’d been annoyed by the nickname - after all, there I was as a freshly-enlisted soldier, trying my best to be as strong and brave as Gaston - but over time I’d come to love it. Soon it would be a codeword for the company he wished to keep with me. We calmed each others’ nerves and relieved the stresses of harsh training and life threatening battle.

“Seems like so long ago,” he muses.

I throw my head back into the sofa cushions to give him better access to my neck. I don’t need to say anything, he knows that I want him to suck and nip at me there.

“It was: twelve years.”

He purrs against my skin, and I gasp at the ceiling. I'm reeling from this sudden display of sentimentality and affection, and I have to will myself to calm down enough to feel every one of his subtle ministrations against the tender muscles in my neck. His stubble scratches at me; the breath from his nose makes my flesh clammy.

“ _Mon cerf_ ,” he says quietly, “I have something for you. But I want you to trust me before I give it to you.”

I balk and chortle at his words. I pet his cheek with the back of my hand. “Have I ever given you a reason to make you think I don't trust you?”

He stops his attentions and looks at me, then; I fight the urge to melt when his cool, hazel eyes land upon mine.

When he pushes up off of me, the loss of body heat is unbearable. He walks out of sight as I stumble to my feet to set the fire, grabbing the tinderbox from off the mantel and kneeling for better access. The fire starts small, but it’s enough to warm my hands around.

His footsteps are heavy on the floorboards and I wonder where he’s pitter-pattering to and from - what’s the nature of this “something” he’s got for me? He’s gone several minutes before I can hear him drawing closer.

“Sometimes, LeFou, I don't think women are all they're cut out to be,” Gaston muses, approaching me from behind. I hum in agreeance.

“You haven't got to look very far to find someone who will agree with you there, Gaston.”

I stoke the flames and watch them bend until he speaks again.

“They're frail and tender-hearted, but you--” he grabs hold of my shoulders and pulls me to my feet; holding me to him. I drop the steel and flint by accident, but Gaston doesn't scold me for it. “You never question the things we do. You can _handle_ it.”

“Well, yes,” I reply, for lack of anything better to say.

“And haven’t I always indulged you in your desires?”

True enough, there are things that we’ve done that women would be unwilling - or incapable - of doing. I’ve never thought that I had asked Gaston for anything particularly crude or unusual, and as close as we are right now - as safe and as cozy as I feel in his arms - I _am_ a bit unsettled by Gaston’s unusual sexual candor.

But regardless of how I feel, he has indulged me, so I nod.

I’m spun and made to sit once more on his sofa, as he stands before me, hands outstretched in front of him. He presents me with a package wrapped in thin cotton fabric with small blue flowers printed on it in a repeating pattern. Though it’s wrapped, it’s very evidently taxidermy - antlers - but I act surprised regardless, and I pull the ribbon to allow the fabric to fall away.

“Oooh,” I chirr, to be polite.

Indeed, I unveil antlers, small and dainty. “It's unlike you to hunt down a young buck.”

When young bucks live and thrive and have families of their own, they grow into large deer with offspring that will, too, grow into large deer. But he shakes his head at me.

“I didn't kill him. Found him torn apart by wolves and merely salvaged what was left. Go ahead, LeFou, take them out of their wrapping.”

I do, as Gaston watches with a prideful eye, and I find that these antlers are not mounted to a plaque for the wall. Instead, they’re attached to a curved band; likely as animal-derived. Bone, maybe.

For the second time this evening, I'm staring dumbly. Thin-lipped and confused as to how Gaston wants me to respond. I'm not sure what the purpose of his gift is.

“Are they a wall decoration?” I ask, though I know they’re surely not.

He smiles down at me, tiny wrinkles forming at the sides of his eyes. He takes the banded antlers right out of my hands and sits beside me.

“ _Mon cerf_ ,” he coos, “turn with your back facing me and I’ll show you.”

I turn, and sure enough, he places the band on top of my head. The weight of them - though petite - is unlike any hat I own, and I tilt my head softly left and right to familiarize myself with the feel of them. “What--”

And then Gaston’s large, chapped fingers are dipping under the collar of my tunic and brushing along my shoulders; he sweeps my hair off the back of my neck, freeing it from the band and letting it fall again overtop it.

“Perfect,” he whispers, close to my ear, and I quiver. I’m so lost in confusion; in this strange, erotic hell.  
  
Gaston isn’t usually so difficult to read, and his thoughts are simple - especially when it comes to sex: disrobe and fuck. Now, as he raises a hand mirror to eye level and I can see the hand-fashioned antler hat he’s made for me - is threaded seamlessly through my hair - I suspect that his intentions tonight are much more complex.

He leans forward against me, and again, I can feel his erection brushing against my lower back. His chin rests on my right shoulder, and he moves the mirror just ever-so-slightly so that I can see the devilish expression painted across his face; eyes heavy-lidded with lust and cheeks flushed pinker than normal.

My mouth goes dry at the sight.

I dart my tongue out to moisten my lips, and I can see his eyes following the motion. He gives me a toothy grin, flashing his wolvish canines at me; accentuating them by running the flat of his tongue across the upper row. And God, do I want that tongue in my mouth again...

“Do I understand correctly that you want me to play the role of _ton cerf_ more literally?”

The look he gives me in response, reflected in that small mirror before me, is enough to drive me mad. His eyes darken and he sneers; exhales hotly through gritted teeth. My poor, untouched cock is aching once more for attention, and I’ll do this for him without question - I would absolutely do anything to see that grinning, carnivorous face above me.

Anything, for him to be fucking into me wildly. 

I want it _now_.

“So, are you a hunter? Or a wolf?” I smirk, playing along with high hopes of making progress and speeding things along.

“They’re one and the same, hm?” He holds me back against his chest and slips his hands beneath the hem of my tunic. Fingers dance their way up my stomach until each hand is holding one of my pecs, tracing ticklish patterns against them with the pads of his fingertips. I sigh and close my eyes and allow myself to relax my muscles, trying as best as I can not to poke him with my new antlers as my head reclines.

His thumbs press into me hard, rubbing small circles against my nipples. It hurts and I flinch; breathing out short, ragged groans. He doesn’t usually pay my chest much attention, and I briefly wonder if he’d recently caught slack from some woman for not giving her the type of attention she’d wanted.

I chortle at the thought, coughing out a half-hearted, “Ow, Gaston--”

His thumbs don’t stop, and my cock is responding favourably to the pain, so I suck my lower lip between my teeth and deal with it a little while longer.

Finally, he says to me, “I have something else for you as well,” and withdraws his hands.

Behind him on the side table nearest the fireplace sits an oblong wooden box. He reaches for it - pulling me back with him as he moves - and passes it to me unceremoniously. It isn’t fancied up with any cloth wrapping or ribbon like the antlers had been, but once I open it, I find that it is lined with a deep red velvet fabric that seems important.

I swallow deeply as I look upon the second part of Gaston’s gift to me; its usage is much more clear to me than the hat had been. A taxidermied deer tail fastened to a wooden base, meticulously carved and tapered, smoothed and polished with veneer. A rather grisly gift, and I frown down at it, thankful that Gaston cannot see my immediate reaction - I don’t want to appear ungrateful.

“I made it for you,” Gaston beams. “I hope it’s big enough.”

I turn to face him as he speaks, and he smirks at me. His eyes are dark and hazy, dangerous. It’s the kind of look that I would typically swoon over, but at the same time I know it means that he’ll be getting what he wants whether I like it or not.

“A...An, um,” I stutter, feeling suddenly bashful - and no wonder he wouldn’t want to give this to a woman. “A plug…”

“Will you wear it?” Gaston asks, his eyes wide and brow raised. “It’s not quite as large as I am, after all.”

And I _can_ find the humour in this entire situation, so I laugh, scrunch my nose up and look him in the eye, giving him my best defeated smirk. I kiss him softly on the lips. “We’ll need lubricant…”

He flies from the sofa nearly as soon as the words leave my mouth, and I topple backwards; hands flying to my head to support Gaston’s gift atop it. He’s gone to his bedroom, I’m sure, which gives me enough time to remove my bottoms - I leave my tunic and stockings on for warmth, assuming that if Gaston takes issue, he’ll strip me himself.

Gaston returns carrying the small, familiar vial of oil that I’ve left here and have been refilling for him for years. He removes its cork and dips his finger inside.

“Turn around, _mon cerf_ ,” he commands, and I do as I’m told.

My elbows rest on the head of the sofa; knees digging into the cushions and facing the backrest. Again, I’m somewhat thankful that Gaston can’t see my face, because I’m sure it’s riddled with uncertainty and skepticism.

As soon as I can feel his body heat behind me, near my naked rump in the air, I also feel a cool, slick finger pressing into me.

I exhale sharply and whimper. _God_ , even just his finger feels amazing--

“LeFou…” he says simply, softly, darkly; sugarcoated with longing.

“Gaston,” I moan, “do it…”

He curls his finger inside of me and presses in further - and then adds another and does the same. His index and middle fingers stroke back and forth at an even pace until I’m shuddering and babbling with my forehead bowed against the head of the sofa by my elbows.  
  
“Oh God, please, Gaston, oh God, _please_ \--"

But before he hits that Perfect Spot within me, he withdraws his fingers, and it’s something much more rigid and cold entering me. The plug.

I yelp at the intrusion, but ultimately it’s nothing I can’t handle and nothing worth getting riled up about.

Gaston walks to the fireplace to admire me from the side, placing the vial of lubricant up onto the mantel. This time, I can’t see myself; I can just hope that the antlers are still on to his liking and that my deer tail looks just as good.

I know I’m blushing furiously - I can feel the wretched burn of embarrassment in my cheeks - and I’ve got tears stinging in my eyes from simply being overwhelmed. My eyes dart over to Gaston’s backlit form; hands crossed at his chest, standing proudly and handsomely as ever with that trademark grin of his.

He puckers his lips.

“S-so?” I croak.

“I think,” he says idly, “we can do better than this. The hunter has caught you, correct?”

He sits beside me on the sofa and drags me over into his lap, lifting my legs to straddle either of his; the movement of the plug inside me makes me jolt. We kiss - that is, he initiates the kiss once more, running his strong hands up and down my arms; massaging down my body until he’s at my ass.

My lips are beginning to feel plump and sore from the unusual amount of attention they’re receiving. When I moan into him, he parts our lips and cranes his neck to reach my throat, licking a snail trail up my neck to the side of my jaw.

“You’ll be good, won’t you?” he whispers into my ear.

He tugs on my tail forcefully, removing the plug from me only slightly, and then pushes it back in - even deeper, maybe, than it was before.

I yelp.

He chuckles.

At his side in its casing is his hunting knife - not in its casing for long, however, because he removes it and wields it about with his left hand; holding my back firmly with his right. Its steel blade shines a magnificent white in the fire light and I watch him get lost in his admiration of it.

He brings it closer to his face - our faces - and hums. I can feel my heart beating in my chest at the mere sight of it, though it’s not from arousal.

I’ve known enough of this feeling in my lifetime to understand that this is fear.

“What I do when I catch deer - if they’re not mortally wounded and are still wandering about,” he starts, “is I slit their necks.”

I stare down at him, now - pupils blown wide - not quite understanding what he’s talking about and growing more nervous by the second. I don’t honestly think he’d harm me...but the thought still lingers in the back of my mind, seeing that knife, and I don’t like it.

“Gaston?”

He looks at me with those still-dark eyes, as though he’s completely absorbed in fantasy. He traces the flat of the blade down my cheek as he speaks:

“Do you trust me, LeFou?”

I’m too shocked to push away, and I don’t want to flinch under his blade lest I knick myself.

“I-- Yes I do, but…” I don’t know what to say that won’t anger him. The blade leaves my cheek, and I wriggle in his lap in a vague attempt to rekindle the erection he’d had not long ago - hell, to rekindle mine - and I try my best to sound demure when I say, “I’m impatient. Won’t you fuck me now?”

I lean into kiss him, and he returns the act, but he also pulls away so that we’re nose-to-nose, breathing hotly against each other, and says “Will you let me mark you? Like I would a deer?”

“...Gaston,” I start, “hasn’t this gone too far already?”

By now I know I must be trembling. My voice is small and weak and I simply don’t know what to say in this kind of situation. Gaston has been my best friend and Captain and - for lack of a better term, perhaps - lover for years now, and I’ve never once questioned what I would do for him.

This, though...

“I won’t let you slit my neck,” I sputter dumbly.

He looks at me as though I’m crazy, and he may have every right. I certainly _feel_ crazy. Finally, he smiles and sets the knife down at his side.

“LeFou, _mon chouchou_...I don’t intend to do anything so...life-altering,” he laughs. “Just a little mark...on your inner thigh, perhaps, where no one will ever see. No one except for me. Besides,” he adds darkly, “if slitting your throat truly was my intention…do you really think you'd stand a fighting chance?”

I’m relieved and yet still so conflicted.

“M-my inner thigh?”

I look down at my bare legs, spread wide against him. They’re already covered in stretchmarks and scars from a lifetime of play and fighting.

“Still...a cut? That’s too much…”

I feel nauseous at the idea. Again, though, my cock reacts completely separately from my brain, and I’m loathe to admit that the thought of Gaston marking me like that is maybe a little bit arousing. If I was ever going to let anybody in the world disfigure me, I guess it would have to be Gaston.

“Let me mark you, _mon cerf_ ,” he coos against my forehead, kissing it tenderly for emphasis, “and I’ll give you exactly what you want. I can’t wait to hear the noises you make…”

I look to the ceiling and heave a dramatic sigh. “Fine! Just a small mark.”

He’s on top of me as fast as lightning, kissing my cheek, my neck - marking me in his old Tried and True fashion with bites and bruises along my lower neck and collarbone, and I gasp and swoon and moan at each marking; giggling uncontrollably when his licks are too soft and ticklish, and rocking up against him when I can feel the pulse of his heartbeat through his tongue.

He pulls my tunic up off over my head and continues to nip his way down my chest, suckling at one of my nipples, which is still rather sensitive so I arch my chest up off the cushions to force his head down further.

He licks a stripe down to my bellybutton and lifts my gut, making his way down, down, down to my thighs. He ignores my cock completely, much to my agony, and I’m shameless about moaning and thrusting my hips to get his attention.

“Please,” I whine, “please, Gaston-- Please? God, please?”

He slaps my hip - hard - and hisses at me. “Deer don’t speak, shush.”

I screw my eyes shut tight at his harsh words. My face is burning up again, but this time it’s because I’m actually into his roleplay now. If he wants to challenge me not to speak, I’m game.

I honestly don’t know if I can do it.

His thumbs knead circles into either of my thighs, and the coldness of his knife is running down my stomach, my hips. I know he’s using the blunt side of it, but the thrill is still there; the promise of death and gore were I his real prey.

When I finally dare to open my eyes to look down at him, Gaston’s got his knife in hand, pointed at my inner thigh just as he’d said. The tip of the knife just barely presses to my leg. He keeps his blade sharpened and clean at all times; I should barely feel a thing…

But when he presses it down, cutting into my flesh, God do I feel it.

My head hits the sofa cushions with a soft thud, the antlers I’m wearing preventing me from comfortably resting into them; my eyes are closed and tears fall from them unbidden. I open my mouth into a silent scream, followed by whimpered hyperventilation.

He soothes me by shushing me once more, licking my thigh around the wound. “You’ve cut your finger worse cooking,” he scolds.

I slap my hand to my mouth to prevent a stream of profanities. He’s probably right, but the shock of having a loved one slicing into you with their hunting blade while you’re wearing taxidermy can really get to you.

“Let’s try again,” he says, and I can feel the knife’s blade trailing down my leg again.

The cutting hurts just as badly, but this time - hand over my mouth - I watch the beads of red rise to the surface and pool at the corners of the small line - a line about two centimetres long - that Gaston has dug into me.

He leaves wet, open-mouthed kisses around the wound. “Good, _mon cerf_. You’re being so good.”

I cough on my own spit and laugh nervously. His eyes stare into mine and he looks positively devious. I can’t believe I have this beastly specimen of a man between my legs, and confident that the deed is done, I rock my hips into the air, cock bobbing about gracelessly, to let him know that I’m ready for him to enter me.

And then he says, “Now let’s make sure you don’t forget whose trophy you are.”

My eyes are wet and wide at his words, and I’m sure that this is it - this whole thing was a trick and he’s actually going to slice my throat after all.

But instead, he places the tip of the knife to the opposite thigh, coos “Don’t move,” and begins to draw with eagle-eye focus.

It hurts less this time - now that I’m high on the adrenaline coursing through my veins - but I close my eyes and wait for him to finish. I can feel my upper arms quivering from where I’ve subconsciously been stiffening my muscles this whole time.

Through it all, I don’t speak a word.

My eyes only open once I can feel Gaston’s ritualistic tongue against my leg - suckling around the wound, kissing my thigh, kissing my hipbone.

Kissing the underside of my hard, needy cock.

I lurch forward in shock and moan, and I love the greedy look of Gaston’s mouth dripping with sweat and tainted with dots of blood; the dazed look in his eyes. It’s enough to make me want to finish then and there.

“You’re the best,” he says proudly, getting to his feet.

I dare to look down at my shaking form; my legs splayed onto the sofa cushions and floorboards. He and I both admire the crude letter ‘G’ carved into my inner left thigh, built of thin red lines. I’m not too terribly bloody - the cuts were shallow and precise, as expected of a professional hunter.

“Gaston, please…” I mutter drunkenly, and he grins and nods in return.

He grabs the back of my head, fists twisting into the curls that fall over the antlers’ band, and pulls me into a ferocious but brief kiss. His lips are replaced soon by two fingers, and I accept them into my mouth without question - glad to be in familiar territory.

He retracts them halfway and pushes them in deep past my teeth; repeats this motion several times, lost in the imagery of it. I know this because he grunts and murmurs, “So fucking-- So perfect like this...”

It sends a shock straight to my groin, and I silently commend his patience, his ability to remain clothed; untouched save for the brief moments of friction against my backside.

Upon his final withdrawal, he drags his saliva-slick fingers down my lower lip; down my chin. The look in his eyes is possessive, dark, sexy.

I want to look into them forever.

“Turn around,” he says, and I comply.

I rest against the head of the sofa as I had when he’d been fingering me. My knees dig against the back of the sofa cushions as they had when he’d filled me with the plug.

The plug; I hadn’t even noticed it as he was marking me, but now it’s all too evident - I feel sufficiently stretched and ready for more. I’m done playing the meek deer, and am ready to feel like myself again. I sigh happily under Gaston’s firm touch; his hands on my ass. He gives one solid slap to my right cheek, and another to my left, and I groan and push my hips back as far as I can, praying that he’ll remove my tail and fuck me already.

He does the former in one smooth, quick tug, and I gasp loudly at the tapered head of it moving past the very ring of muscle that had kept it in place.

“You look good like this, _mon cert_ ,” Gaston praises, and I absorb it gleefully. “You look perfectly ready for your hunter to give you your reward...”

 _Enough_ , I want to scream, but never in my dreams could I ever--

I turn my head just enough to catch Gaston unfastening the fly of his breeches in the corner of my eye, rolling them down his hips and taking his underdrawers with them. Then suddenly he’s plunging into me to the hilt - so deep I can feel his hipbones jutting against my ass. He’s only using what lubricant remained from the plug, so it burns as he begins to move, but it’s a welcome and erotic pain that I’m used to.

“Yesss,” I hiss through clenched teeth. “ _Yes_ , hahh--”

He snaps into me repeatedly without faltering - working himself into an even rhythm that I catch onto easily, rocking back to meet his ruthless forward thrusts.

The sweat dripping from our bodies together - lubricant and fluids running from my groin down my thighs - stings at my wounds. Every movement pulls at the short red lines that want to begin healing. I grunt and moan and call out Gaston’s name to distract me.

“ _Fuck_ \--!”

The stream of blissful profanity that tumbles from Gaston’s lips sounds as beautiful as a church chorus to me; fills my ears and drowns out the rapid beating of my heart. I know I won’t be able to last much longer, despite the pain and tingling numbness I’m feeling in my legs; the tears stinging behind my eyes.

I rest my head against the sofa and sob: overwhelmed and exhausted, and unbelievably horny. Ready for climax as Gaston growls behind me, and I suspect he’s ready too.

“Gaston, _mon chasseur_ ,” I utter breathlessly as he fucks me harder into the fabric of the sofa, “fill me.”

I bite my lower lip; throw one hand up to clasp around my mouth. I whimper and wheeze and groan out loudly despite my efforts, and I pump myself to completion; find my release, spilling onto the back of the sofa that smells of whiskey and fire and sweat.

His hips snap once more against me - bruisingly hard - and he clutches me to him with his arms wrapped around my chest so that we’re nearly standing. He’s so, so deep inside of me when I can finally feel that warm fullness within me, and then Gaston’s forehead is against my sweaty back, and our bodies are heaving together until we catch our breaths.

The sigh that escapes me is shaky and wrecked, and I can swear I hear Gaston chuckle behind me.

“LeFou,” he pants. “I love fucking you.”  
  
After all these years, it’s about as close as I’ll get to a confession of love, and I grit my teeth and smile, even though he can’t see my face. He knows I’ll always follow him. Maybe I really am just prey.  
  
But I don’t mind at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Please give me your thoughts in the comments or message me @riachinko on Twitter or @rudigerblues on Tumblr ^o^
> 
> Whooooops~


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